Jackie’s Easy Ramen Recipe

As far as I have been responsible for feeding myself, I have had a deep and steadfast affinity for all noodles. They are cheap, never go bad and versatile. I don’t give a fuck what Marie Osmond, Jillian Michaels or your gluten free roommate tells you… carbs are NOT the enemy. I get aroused by a good pasta and if you learn to make it at home for yourself, you can cut out a lot of the fatty, unhealthy bullshit ingredients restaurants add (same goes with salad dressing). Last night I experimented with an old friend of a noodle, Ramen, and was pleasantly tickled.

I haven’t cooked Ramen in years because it takes me back to a dark place… college. I know being that I am just 39% basic, one would assume I loved college and was in a sorority and like shared hotel rooms in Vegas to go to some day club cause I knew the promoter…but no. I fucking hated college. Hence while I only made it about a year and a half. I spent the better part of my collegiate days ditching class, doctoring fake report cards to send to my dad to see if fake straight A’s could wrangle me a few extra hundred a month, watching Barefoot Contessa, then going to Food for Less in pursuit of discount Branzino.

Unfortunately, once mid-month hit I usually had to resort to one fucking thing to sustain my beastly appetite, Ramen. So as you can imagine, we have a very sentimental and indifferent relationship, Ramen and I.

Last night, I went back in time along with a more highly developed culinary touch and gave my 5 year old emergency Ramen package a go and here is the easiest, most delicious, cheap, healthy asian noodle dinner you have ever tasted. Fuck you Ina.

What you need (for one serving #allbymyself #dontjump) 1 package of ramen noodles, 2 small heads of baby bok choy, handful of kale, 2 handfuls of shitake mushrooms (or whichever you like), 2 small thai peppers, ginger, 5 cloves of garlic, 1 shallot, ¼ lb of steak (I used stir fry style), one egg, teriyaki sauce, 1 ½ cups of veggie broth, fish sauce, low sodium soy sauce, lime, chives.

  1. Soft boil an egg in pot of boiling water, 6 minutes is perfection erection, remove shell and rinse under cool water to stop cooking, put aside.
  2. In same water (#resourceful) cook your ramen noodles about 3 minutes, throwout the flavoring packet – that shit will leave you bloated until 2018.
  3. Strain noodles and set aside.
  4. Over medium heat, add about 2 tablespoons of olive oil, 5 cloves of chopped garlic, half a thumb worth of peeled and chopped fresh ginger, 2 thai peppers (scrape out the insides these fuckers are HOTT) and half of a shallot chopped. Sautee until translucent.
  5. Peel leaves of the bok choy (throw out the tough inside part) and add to the ginger/garlic and toss until they soften about 2 minutes.
  6. Add mushrooms, sautee another 2 minutes.
  7. Add vegetable broth, few dashes of soy sauce, few dashes of fish sauce, juice and zest of half a lime and handful of kale, stire and let simmer on low heat until shit gets hott and all veggies are soft and wilted
  8. In separate pan heat up tablespoon of olive oil and add meat of your liking, sautee just lightly so meat does not get touch, add a dash of teriyaki to give some sweetness and throw in some sesame seeds if you got em.
  9. Add your ramen noodles and egg to the hot broth to reheat and then pour into a bowl. Slice the soft boiled egg in half and place on top.
  10. Add meat, handful of chopped chives, remaining raw shallot, lime wedge or zest on top of noodles and thank me later.



Things I Kurrently Kan’t With

Sorry I haven’t been actively blogging lately. I have been in a great mood lately and tend to only do my best work when I am angry or super menstrual. Lucky for you and my vagina, I am menstruating (#notpregnant) so I knew it was time to delight my bitches with some updates on my life.

Firstly, I have started wearing Uggs. I feel like I should probably go get a Wal-Mart credit card and go buy some fucking Warm Vanilla Lace body spray because isn’t that what people in Uggs do? This is a true story, I am quoted in my high school yearbook saying, “Uggs are UG” a decade ago (I won ‘Best Style’ #humblebrag and that tidbit was all I could come up with as a style philosophy). At the time, this was very controversial. I lost like 7 friends who swore by a Hollister jean skirt and Ugg boot combo after that was published. So as you can imagine, as I ventured to Starbucks this morning in leggings and my very vintage Uggs I felt like a super cunt traitor but also amazing.

Also on an entirely unrelated note… someone called me a pedophile on twitter. Just because I innocently called Hilary Duff’s 4 year old son hott. I would like to go on record and say that I stand by that statement. Seriously though have you seen him? Hottest 4 year old I have ever seen. If the one upside of sexism is that as a woman it’s less pedophilic to call kids hott, then please let me take advantage of that. Kaia Gerber is hott as fuck. She gets Cindy Crawford genealogy AND a lifetime of Casamigos Tequila. Romeo Beckham… please call me when you are 18. Or 17. Or 12.

Fuck “friends day”. The best part about making harsh statements against these fabricated Facebook holidays is that people get so offended and immediately start to defend themselves for taking part in the propaganda. If you are a regular cyber stalker like yours truly, you don’t need a sappy computer generated slideshow to reminisce. Firstly, you don’t even like 60% of the people pictured and secondly, no one gives a fuck. Publicly celebrating FrIeNdS dAy is like publicly celebrating your menstrual cycle after a pregnancy scare. Or like a Ramona Singer “New Beginnings” party. It’s self indulgent as fuck.

And lastly, on this day February 3, 2016, I initiate yet another Kardashian Kleanse. Because after 3 painful episodes of Kocktails with Khloe, 26 disgruntled reader emails attacking me for calling Caitlyn Jenner an asshole and 487 hours of watching Kylie Jenner’s snapchat and crying myself to sleep – I just kan’t do it anymore.

I miss Lace.


This is a new weekly post where things that are irritating me come to die. They may be resurrected a la Jesus Christ at a latter time, but in this very instance I wholeheartedly stand by my personal decision to pull the metaphorical plug if you will.

Rosé I fucking love rosé. Not some gross shit from a bag, box or bottle of 2 Buck Chuck #sulfites. I am talking REAL rosé. Without emulating Gwyneth Paltrow, real rosé is from Provence and doesn’t leave you with red rashy rosacea face like other cheap shit. As much as it pains me to say, rosé season is over. The good news is that once rosé season is over, so is bikini season so it’s time to let yourself go again. Insulate for the winter, eat a pizza, have a beer.

The Bing Bang Theory Okay. Does anyone ACTUALLY think this shit is funny? Jimmy Nuetron called and wants his graphic designer back. Watching actors in mock turtlenecks playing “nerds” while being paid a million dollars an episode seems exploitive to my intelligence. LAUGH TRACKS MAKE ME SO UNCOMFORTABLE. I can’t, I haven’t, I won’t. Ever. (But I really love Kaley Cuoco.. be friends with me?)

Yeezy x Adidas  If Jodie Sawyer from Center Stage gained 100 lbs and ended up being severely depressed and admitted to a mental institution, then whilst in solitary confinement found a stray pencil and started sketching fat binding androgynous dancewear as a solemn creative outlet – you would have Kanye’s fall collection. It’s sad, it’s manic, it’s fat binding and it’s a camel toe nightmare. These are not clothes, these are mesh full body condoms.

Paris Shit Paris is the most beautiful city in the world. I love the rude people, I love the food, I love almost everything about it… except the memorabilia. If you walk into a bitches house and she has 3 or more home décor items with a Parisian theme… grab your shit and head for the hills. When I see someone with a black and white picture of an Eiffel Tower I instantly think #daddydrama and/or Lexapro. I also hate people who caption their Instagram posts with things like “j’adore” or “je’taime”… because it’s “je’stupid”. Makes me want to punch myself in the trachea and drown myself in the Seine after engorging myself with a wheel of local brie.

Faux Senior-Citizen Hair Maybe I am just jealous that my mane doesn’t have the flexibility to change colors without deep reconstructive treatments. My hair is the blend of a pipe cleaner and a dead weed. There is not enough frizz serum and moisture masks in the world to allow me to casually die my hair grey. I will admit, I had some pink extensions put in after a run-in with Lisa Vanderpump, but shortly realized I was not pulling that shit off. So essentially I drank the kool-aid and then dipped my head in it. Why the fuck would anyone want to voluntarily look geriatric? Jamie Lee Curtis called and wants her look back.

Rest in peace.

High Hopes, Low Expectations

For my gentile readers who may not have known, we are amidst the Jewish New Year formally known as Rosh Hashanah. It is one of the only days where frizzy haired Jews head to the nearest synagogue to husband hunt, swap rhinoplasty stories and judge each other’s temple ensembles. It is also the beginning of a 10 day period of reflection and repentance.

It has always been my favorite holiday because it gives me a January 1st redo and this bitch LIVES for a good list, this being the faux-intentioned resolution list I get to make for myself and others not once, but TWICE a year. Naturally I have zero intention of following any of these but those who can’t reflect, deflect. So….

  1. Ban the following articles from my wardrobe; maxi dresses, peplum, crochet monokinis, any embellished headbands, moccasins, wedge sneakers, mesh insert dresses, vests and anything made of vegan fabric… ew.
  2. Stop body shaming my boyfriend. One amazing trick to a happy and healthy relationship is to keep your better half humble. I like to slowly but surely create completely false insecurities to keep people I love appreciative and indebted to me for my brutal honesty and understanding. I often refer to my significant as “pear shaped” when in reality is eggplant shaped and hott as fuck. I still find this to be hilarious but also really want him to put the money he may invest in thigh gap lipo towards an engagement ring so I guess I will stop.
  3. Learn the difference between a city, state and country. I was too busy trying to reconstruct the texture of my jew-fro and cultivating charisma in middle school to pay attention in Geography. It’s called Google Maps bitch. HOWEVER, I thought Hawaii was it’s own country up until 7 weeks ago which is not ideal. I also thought Isis was a new upscale snow cone shop.
  4. Instill a lifelong Kardashian Kleanse. I will no longer be discussing them. I am trying to be a fucking intellect over here and they no longer fit into my new cerebral life #growth.
  5. Incorporate some form of physical activity in my day to day life. I hate people who say they “love to exercise” I think anyone who says that is a dirty liar. I personally love eating whatever I want without consequences a fuck lot more then busting my ass on a treadmill. I don’t drink water because I am being respectful of the drought and I avoid anything gluten free because I have a fucking SOUL. Regardless, it would be nice to be able to make it up a flight of stairs without a side cramp.
  6. Stop cussing so fucking much.
  7. No longer use my digestive system as a go-to topic of conversation at social gatherings. As much as the bartender making my dirty martini is wildly riveted by my state of constipation, I think it is time for me to be more selective and mysterious in regards to my bowel movements. I like to think acknowledging my food baby is a great way to bond with a stranger but apparently some people think it’s uncomfortable.

Wish me luck and Shana Tova bitches.

Quarter Life Crisis Vibes

Today is my mother fucking birthday. Many would assume that I relish in all things that are centrally focused on me. This is 100% accurate in almost all aspects of my life with the exception of my day of birth. As a child I LIVED for my birthday, I wore a tiara for the major part of August, registered myself at all major department stores and would have big jam-packed birthday parties with a $25 gift minimum.

After I turned 20, something changed. What once was my favorite day of the year became 24 hours I wished I could fast forward. Jackie Schimmel, the introvert? Has hell frozen over? I have no clue what happened but for the past 5 years my birthday has been a real self-inflicted bust.

For some reason, people seem to think turning 25 is a big deal. I guess it’s the start of a quarter life crisis and you officially are no longer a member of the early-twenties club. I’m like actually considered an adult. Fuck, is this the last year my parents are paying for my health insurance? I still don’t even know what Obama Care is? Am I going to have to look into this? Shit.

So in commemoration of my early twenties self I thought I could compile a list of things I will have to retire as of today…

I feel like I need to be more mindful of my nail art. Ladies in their late twenties don’t have the flexibility to test out as many decals as a 22-year-old. Also, chipped nail polish seems completely unacceptable now that I am legally able to rent a car.

It’s probably time I stop toilet papering my grandparents house. For the past 25 years, I have spent many an uneventful Saturday night going to CVS for an economy sized pack of 1-ply toilet paper and tee-peeing my relatives homes. I happen to think this is really hilarious and keeps them youthful so I may have to hold on to this pastime for a few more years. Sorry Papa…

Become the laundress of my dreams. Whoever started telling people it’s a big fucking deal to separate whites from colors is a borderline tard. I have quarter of a century (or really only like 4 years) experience of NEVER separating jackshit and all my clothes have maintained their shapes and saturation just fine. It’s a Clorox conspiracy theory. My perfect laundry philosophy; keep the water cold and instantly fold. You’re welcome!

Exercise for “my health”. Ew I’m kidding, physical activity is the worst. As long as I can keep my neurotic yet oh so endearing demeanor and maintain my average of 5 mega calorie-burning panic attacks a month I should be able to keep my figure. I love people who say they only work out for their “health”. You don’t want a muffin top and I get it.

Become a humanitarian. As a real adult and hopefully a future part time cast member on the Real Housewives I should probably find my cause. I could be basic and go with some popular disease but I’m unique. I’m leaning towards fibromyalgia, gluten allergies or AIDS. Actually, AIDS can’t be my cause… Too real. I would need a light-hearted std to fundraise. Synchronized Swimming for Syphilis DOES have an amazing ring to it, no?

Delete my fucking Linkedin profile. I am a young unprofessional, I have no business being on there. What kind of sick fucks designed a business networking site that SHOWS who’s been creeping on your shit? Not my vibe. I have managed to avoid a real job for a few years now and am enjoying the ride. Also, no legitimate place of business would ever have me so it’s time to delete.

Utilize both Google and Webster’s Dictionary. Confusing chlorophyll and chloroform is both inappropriate and dangerous in a group setting. Also, truffle butter is NOT a luxury condiment. So thanks for that awkward conversation at Spago Nicki Minaj… Bitch.

Let the quarter life crisis ensue!

I Give a Fuck

This may the most Emo Emily post I have ever written and will ever post. Fueled mostly by menstruation, I have felt completely stuck like an Asian at a yellow light for past week. I always feel this way around the New Year and have no fucking clue why. I usually blame being a Jew and feeling conflicted internally that I have to celebrate two New Years and than coincidently have to pick which one is the real thing.

I have a quarter life crisis at least 5 times a year. I am insanely hard on myself and riddled with excess adrenaline. I care way too much what people think of me. It’s not the worst thing in the world. Why do we as a society celebrate not giving a fuck? I give huge fucks. Mazel Tov, you don’t care what people think, how “Los Feliz” of you. My livelihood is based on a stranger’s approval so it is to my best benefit to care. Right? RIGHT.

Last week while staying at my parent’s house during the holidays I ran into an old middle school “friend.” I do not do these situations well. I get really nervous and highly over share. I let her know I was constipated – why this is my go-to topic of convo I will NEVER know.  We were both in the tampon aisle; I hadn’t started menstruating yet but was trying to channel The Secret for my last moments of 2014. Like I say every month “better to GET your period, than not.” I then awkwardly mentioned how serendipitous it was to reunite in the feminine product aisle and offered her a high five for “not being pregnant.” I then continued to over share and told her I have yet to actually GET my period but was anticipating a real menstrual monsoon based on recent cravings. She indulged me in my ovulation small talk and made a joke “Maybe you’re just pregnant?” I laughed and shot back, “Luckily, I have a sketchy friend who swears a few lines of cocaine, a scorching hot bath, and a day of extreme horseback riding will solve that issue.” This did not go over well.

Once again, in my pursuit of being charming, I had taken it too far. Sensing her disdain for my failed joke (although not REALLY a joke – my friend swears it works) I gave an awkward hug and evacuated the aisle quickly. Fuck. Then the tornado in my head started brewing. Uh-oh, what if she had a baby? What if she is in a Pro-Life Initiative Group? What is a Pro-Life Initiative Group? What if she thinks I am a drug addict? I have never even done cocaine… Although it would be a great way to aide in a deviated septum so I could get a free nose job. Why do I even care?

I started awkwardly pacing through different aisles debating whether I should stage another run-in and try to redeem myself. I decided I had done enough damage and should spare myself the opportunity to make anymore inappropriate jokes. I could already check abortion and substance abuse off my list. What would be next? Holocaust jokes? It was time to leave.

Later that day I started thinking about perception. Sometimes who we really are and who people think we are can be a scary paradox. Why the fuck did I care SO much about what a glorified stranger thought about me? As I tried to talk myself off the metaphorical cliff of worrying about making the front page of our local newspaper “Jackie Schimmel Hates Unborn Children AND Does Cocaine!” I sat down and found unlikely solace from Valerie Cherish. For those of you, who don’t watch “The Comeback” or don’t find Valerie Cherish to be the MOST loveable and endearing character on television I need you out of my life. Val taught me that while a public opinion is nice– the most important is the opinion you have of yourself. If your hair is ratchet, you can buy a weave. If you’re not that cerebral, you can hire a tutor. But you can’t buy a good reputation.


Amy, I am really sorry if I offended you. I have yet to pick up any form of substance abuse and generally like 70% of small children. I still think it was really funny and hope you will forgive me… #igaf

Laws of Distraction

This is my best childhood friend Dan… he actually had the audacity to post this on the internet. He has since deleted the photo after much backlash but luckily I have it saved on my hardrive and look at it whenever I feel down and out. Dan is a good guy and has a hott girlfriend despite thinking publishing this pic on the internet was socially acceptable. Let’s examine this shall we? A) The sunset picture in the backround SCREAMS homosexual. Seriously? B) He is wearing fucking sunglasses indoors and a hemp bracelet he probably bought at Whole Foods while he was picking up an Acai bowl. C) Clearly he has chosen the beautiful atmosphere of the lavatory for this glamour shot which means he either just went to the bathroom and recognized the good lighting OR he relocated to the bathroom solely for a photo op … I am not sure which is worse. D) He has skillfully unbuttoned his shirt which catapults this pic to a level of nausea that makes me want to become a lesbian AND put myself down. There are a myriad (big word) of simple mistakes men can make on a daily basis that need to be addressed and discontinued. Here are some fail proof parcels of wisdom to serve as a guiding light for all males, whether it be the douchiest of douches or the catchiest of catches.


  • Don’t fucking poke a bitch on Facebook. Poking is like virtual rape. 2007 called and wants it’s fun new feature back.
  • Don’t share results to the Buzzfeed quiz you took on what Saved By The Bell character you are. No one gives a shit that you got AC Slater.
  • Cool it with the emojis. This goes hand and hand with the poking… It all screams Megan’s Law.
  • Humble bragging is for guys who don’t get laid. Any guy that has ever said “Work hard, play hard” or “Rise and grind” might as well just give up now and apply as a Manager at Taco Bell cause that is as good as it is going to get.
  • Don’ take a selfie EVER but most definitely NOT at the gym. If you wan’t to really impress a bitch snap a picture of your real estate portfolio. Being at the gym on a weekday at 2pm is not admirable #parttime.
  • If you are asking a bitch to dinner, call her don’t invite via text. Granted she will probably not pick up but it is the thought that counts. Also, make a reservation.
  • BUTTON UP YOUR FUCKING SHIRT. Listen Fabio, no one wants to get a chest hair in their martini so close up shop guido.
  • If you drive a fucking Mitsubushi don’t take the emblem off and put a spoiler on it in the lucky case you pick up a bitch with a stigmatism who thinks it’s a Lambo.
  • Topics of conversations to avoid: student loans, dead relatives, your fraternity, music festivals, the time you went Vegan, the weather, calories, crossfit, your mother.
  • Don’t serve a bitch a drink in a plastic cup. Also bonus points if you have snacks (I suggest a triple crème brie and proscuitto… or bagel bites)
  • Loving your mom is great. Still being breast fed at age 27 and needing her input on which tie he should wear to a work function is fucking weird.
  • If you have red sheets you need to re-evaluate your life choices.
  • Tell a girl she looks pretty, memorize her drink order and never buy carnations #fillerflowers.

You’re welcome.

The Mile High (Blood Pressure) Club

Howdy bitches!

I have been in Nashville past few days eating fried gator, drinking beer and hiding my Judaism. Unfortunately my hotel doesn’t have Bravo (already complained to management) and there will be no recap this week. On a lighter note, Jim Marchese tweeted me and I was able to tell him personally about my distaste for his light wash denim #troll.

True to form my pilgrimage to get here was… interesting. Anyone who knows me knows I have the shittiest luck on planes. There was the time when I was 12 and got hit by a Dutch woman for kicking her seat, the time the crypt keeper 95 year old had a heart attack in my lap on my way home from London AND MOST RECENTLY the time I sat next to Shamu’s obese fire-crotched cousin on my flight to Nashville.

I get that obesity is kind of a disease and this is politically incorrect (I can already hear the aggressive emails flooding my inbox) BUT as human beings we must be mindful of our pros and cons. For instance, I am fully aware a con of mine is my incessant need to share my digestive issues with strangers. And I probably should stop saying “fuck” so much.

Because of these truths, I try to limit my exposure to small children, Mormons and holistic practitioners. If one more fucker tries to insist exercise will help my bowel movements I am going to flip… doesn’t anyone get that I am the pioneer woman for “Say NO To Cardio”?

I should clarify I have no problem with fat people. I appreciate their lifestyle and plan to be amongst their body type one day.

As I settled into my chic economy middle seat, I was incredibly pleased with my seatmate to the left (a mid-30s New Yorker with 3 phones, a Balenciaga bag full of sleeping pills and a standoffish personality – no potential for idle chit chat). The plane was very full and mere seconds away from take off. And sweet – I am next to an open seat!

As soon as a smile of relief spread across my face, the plane shook disturbingly. I choked on the smell of bacon and diabetes as a behemoth took his first step down the aisle. I looked up hesitantly…Fuck. Sure enough, he sat right next to me. Fuck. He had worn sweatpants and was armed with a bag of McDonalds – ready to rumble.

It’s one thing to fly coach, it’s another thing to fly next to someone you could skin, inflate and live inside of. For the first time in my life, I became a victim of the armrest boundary free passenger program. I am not someone who is great sharing personal space and most definitely not a bitch who was ready to be a human pillow for a 4-hour flight. The flight attendant assured me I would have to retract my armrest so that my flight mate could fit in his (and my) seat. Pardon?  Booboo passed out after his 8th Big Mac and I was stuck watching the Main Menu and scrambling the letters to make words because he was drooling on my shoulder and blocking my armrest remote with his fucking tricep.

In reality he had 1 1/2 seats for himself and I had only half of my own seat and a near panic attack. Despite my frugality, I tried flagging the stewardess and begging her for the open seat in first class. Trying to arrange this without waking (and offending) the beast was a struggle and ultimately not an option.

I probably wouldn’t have written about this if he was a nice person I could empathize with but he was a life ruiner.

About 2 hours in, I needed a Bloody Mary or I was going to jump out of an emergency exit. To paint a picture – big boy was lounging across our seats, spread eagle, straddling both his and my leg area, and SNORING. His ham hock of a foot (shoes off by the way) was plopped down on my travel bag. I wanted to shank myself. I had to get my credit card out to pay and needed him to get his sweaty ass foot off my shit.

I gave him a gentle tap… no response. I tapped more aggressively.

“Hi sir, so sorry to bother you, just needed to grab my wallet. Again, so sorry to bother you.”

I know via written word I seem like I would be one ballsy bitch but the truth is I am a total pussy in real life.

He looked at me like I had just eaten the last petal of his Awesome Blossom. He let out an irritated sigh accompanied with an eye roll.


The stewardess handed me my beverage with an empathetic smile and I quickly sucked it down. I really had no choice, I was unable to put my tray down without chaffing Ginger Snaps’ nipple. I swallowed my pride and let Rotundra abuse my personal space. I am now a proud member of the mile high blood pressure club.

American Airlines – you owe me a free flight and at least 67 drink coupons. Kisses.


I need to get something off my chest…up until last night I thought Ebola was a type of yoga or an alternate name for a fetus. This is why I don’t watch the fucking news – can you imagine my Google search letdown? I am too neurotic to keep up with current events and diseases. Also – still a bit unsure about what ISIS is – I get the gist but my serotonin levels really can’t handle another punch.

The beauty of my naiveté is that I am 100% able to keep up in conversations concerning all of the above. Sure, for the first 24 seconds I was pretty sure ISIS was a new Apple gadget or specialty snow cone store, but I have a special gift that I am here to share with you. This, ladies and gentleman, is the precious art of faking it.

The Cold War, sexual harassment policies, Obamacare, Burning Man, Child Labor Laws – all are things I could discuss for hours despite having no clue what they are. I’m assuming the Cold War was over a heating unit? I can go from Elle Woods to Rachel Maddow in a jiffy.

These past few weeks have been crazy. I’ve been lucky enough to be in some seriously undeserving meetings with important people I have no business working with. Honestly, I am still shocked I get more then 4 readers a day (1. Mom 2. Best friend 3. Myself 4. Myself again).

The whole experience has been humbling… Well, it’s actually been the opposite of humbling but I am trying to seem likeable. Why do people even use that expression in extremely complimentary situations? Have you noticed every time someone wins an Oscar they say how humbled they are? Awky.

These situations plus irrelevant faux friends I went to school with who are coming out of the woodworks thinking I have something to offer them (I don’t) and trying to mend our relationship has been fucking fantastic. I still remember you said I was ugly in 7th grade so no, I do not need a Social Media Assistant. #byefelicia

I’ve been feeling so high (naturally – pot gives me anxiety #shocker) I even deleted my Instafollow app which tracks who unfollows me on my social media outlets. If that isn’t growth I don’t know what is. I figure fuck it, if you don’t like my shit at least I have a lot of strangers that do and isn’t that what life’s really all about?

As far as all these new life changes go, I have had to rely on faking it more then ever. Without any desire to really learn new traits, what is a bitch SUPPOSED to do? Learn? Grow? Evolve? Uh… no thank you. As much as I’m DYING to add “Proficient in Excel” to my LinkedIn skills I’ve never wanted to come off too administratively strong. I have often said I’m the most driven and hardworking underachiever in the game and I mean that whole-heartedly.

In my head, I am always one search bar away from knowing just as much as the Yale grad with an Emmy to my left so there is nothing to be trepidatious about. In fact, I don’t even know what the word trepidatious means and does it really matter?


Nod your head, make an offbeat joke, agree with whatever the majority is saying and go home and Google your little heart out. Sometimes it’s not about what you know – it’s about how well you can conceal what you don’t know.

Handicap Stall Horror

I don’t embarrass easily. In fact, I can only remember three instances of being legitimately embarrassed. The first time was when I blacked out in college and did an interpretive dance at a fraternity formal. The gentlemen were intrigued by my white girl rhythm. The second time was when I did an encore performance of the same interpretive dance at my little cousin’s Bat Mitzvah except that time I had brought props (a ribbon wand #duh). They were similarly impressed. And thirdly, there was the time I FaceTimed a coworker in the loo. I have said this once and I will say it again… Siri is a fucking bitch. I am not sure if this is her fault or not, but for the sake of maintaining mental stability I need someone to blame and it sure as fuck isn’t me.

Three weeks ago, I was enjoying the anonymity of a very clean public restroom. I always take the handicapped stall – I rationalize that I am digestively handicapped and can’t perform in cramped spaces. I laid down my four toilet seat covers and took a look at my new digs for the next 25 minutes As I sat down, mentally preparing myself, I began casually scanning various social media profiles on my faulty iPhone. Facebook, Twitter, Linkedin, Grindr – the usual.

Deciding I needed to focus and practice Ujjayi breathing to help activate things down under, I put said phone into my tote bag and sat praying for God to relieve me of my four day food baby, just in time for a poolside weekend. Ten minutes later without any success and four irritated knocks on the stall door, “Are you even going to the bathroom?”, my phone began making an unfamiliar tone.

Did Jonah Hill retweet our photo-shopped wedding photo I sent him? Is it my mother calling me to schedule my delayed rhinoplasty? Everyone knows 11am – 11:30am is my “private time.” Who would disrupt me? I began to frantically scramble through my bag when I heard an unfamiliar voice calling out to me. “Hello? Jackie?”

What the fuck?

I finally found my phone swimming in a pool of ranch sunflower seeds when I picked up my phone and saw a former coworker staring back at me. HOLY SHIT BALLS. My phone had somehow fucking FaceTimed him while I was ON THE TOILET. What does one do in a situation like that? Can you make that not awkward? The second I saw him staring back at me in my shameful stall of defeat, I immediately screamed and threw my phone against the wall. Unfortunately the impact of the throw did not hang up the call and Kevin was left looking sideways and trying to figure out what he was seeing.

“Jackie is this a joke?”

I can only assume he was now squinting at the base of the toilet with my coated jeans down and sequined Converse at a 90 degree angle. I tried throwing my bag to cover the camera lens and due to my shitty hand-eye coordination, I fucked that up as well. All the while, Kevin is trying to figure out if this is a joke or not, and HASN’T HUNG UP THE CALL.

To be clear, I worked on a television pilot with him for three weeks. We were situationally close but hadn’t actually seen each other in over four years. We have kept up on social media and an inside joke text here and there, but no actual relationship exists which makes this situation even more difficult. I began to hysterically laugh and then hysterically cry. Kevin had to think I was re-enacting a scene from Girl Interrupted or was in an actual psych ward.

Ultimately I had to swiftly pull up my pants, lunged to my phone and hang up without making eye contact or giving him any more aerial shots of the public restroom. I said nothing, covered the camera with my finger and ended the call, the relationship and the food baby expulsion. I gave no follow up information, “Hey sorry, I accidentally FaceTimed you while I was on the toilet…LAWLZ!” and will never speak to Kevin again on principle.

I left my stall with a cracked screen, a deteriorated friendship, and a serious food baby, still in place. I have not taken the handicapped stall since and have deleted Facetime as it has proven to be detrimental both emotionally and digestively.

Life Lessons From Paris Hilton

I don’t know if many of you followed Paris Hilton’s music career circa 2006 but I sure as fuck did. I was especially taken by her classic hit “Jealousy” which boasted the thought provoking lyrics “Jealousy, jealousy, jealousy… it’s such an evil thang”. Rumor had it the song was about Nicole Richie. Despite her skunky highlights and dabbling in heroine, I always knew Nicole would end up on top. You go girl. Paris, passive aggression is never a cute look … neither are your Ukranian extensions, vakakta fold over mini skirts and disgraceful display of embroidered halter tops. Get your shit together already.

Yesterday, I had a really fan-fucking-tastic day. Professionally things have really come full circle and shit I only imagined in my delusional head are actually coming to fruition. Don’t get an ovary boner… I haven’t started adapting the principles of “The Secret” I still think that shit is DUMB AS FUCK. I solely attribute recent happenings to hard work, restraining order worthy persistence and a huge dose of luck. Like any bitch, when great things happen to me instead of having internal pride and feeling full with a sense of accomplishment, I turn to Instagram. Because let’s be honest what’s the point of doing anything great in life if you can’t share it with 650 people you haven’t seen since high school?

Naturally when you put yourself out there (like I always obnoxiously have) you become susceptible to not so fabulous feedback. As a repercussion to my actions, I received the following email “Stop bragging. Everyone knows you either have your daddy help you or had to bang a producer to get anywhere in life.” This shit really ticked a bitch off. Firstly, my father is in real estate and proven to be only a liability to my career as he insists on having his lawyer look over anything I’ve ever had to sign  (even if it was a fucking field trip form) and likes to make awkward office visits while he snaps pics on his phone of me candidly “working” so he can show friends and family. Like look! My daughter dropped out of college against my will, has been delinquent with her electricity bill so she can buy Loboutins but at least she is working! I have pics to prove it! What a jew. Secondly, I have banged a producer and it gotten me fucking nowhere. So fuck off.

I called my gay Sherpa and read him the email. “She is obviously just jealous.”  I hate when people just assume people are “just jealous”. Maybe you are an uptight bitch, self-righteous mother-fucker or are a huge asshole? We should make a vow as females not to automatically think people who are rude to us are simply jealous. Perhaps a bit more internal soul-searching is due before we concede the culprit be jealousy because you might just really suck. I get that may be a tough pill to swallow but the good news is it goes down easier with a stiff dirty martini. I may be a lot of things; socially insensitive, perpetually constipated and painfully delusional (I blame my mother for telling me I looked like a young Kelly Russell when I was in middle school. In reality I looked like ET with lethal jew frizz, braces and cloak of false self-confidence) but I have just never been a jealous person. I am sick in the way that I take on anyone I loves personal victories as my own and genuinely make myself believe I am a key factor in their success.

Bitches who are intimidated by you, will speak poorly of you in hopes of tarnishing your sparkle to others. Whether it be jealousy (ew), insecurity, genuine dislike or just way too much time on their hands, bitches best be making their hatas their motivatas.And aren’t we all just too busy to give a shit anyways? Bitch Bible Prophecy: Playas they gonna play. Hater’s they gonna hate. Ballers they gonna ball. Shotcallers they gonna call. That ain’t got nuthin to do, with me and you. That’s the way it is #3LW and also Nicole > Paris … always.